Even with a length of 770 miles and a width of 250 miles, California's myth looms larger than its sizable footprint. Our most populous state is also Porsche's biggest single market. George Follmer and Mark Donohue crushed the competition here at Laguna Seca in the early 1970s Can-Am series. James Dean lost it in a 550 west of the spot where the Coast Range comes down to meet the vast expanse of the Central Valley, a plain the size of Tennessee.

The company went so far as to stage the global launch of the 911's latest iteration—internally known as the 991—at the southern end of the state's Central Coast. I came away from that trip wholly impressed with the car's capabilities. It was indubitably a fantastic machine, but I needed more time and more miles to make sense of it. With that in mind, I petitioned Porsche's PR staff in Atlanta for a copy of the Carrera S to bring along on the California Mille. What does the 991 mean for the 911? What does it mean for Porsche? And what does it mean for California?

Porsche's 356, the 911's predecessor, was a featherweight thing, seemingly capable of being pushed by a finger. When the 901 launched—the 911 moniker came about because Peugeot claimed ownership of any road-car name with two digits bracketing a zero—purists claimed that the larger, heavier six-cylinder car was a travesty. When the 911 Carrera arrived a decade later, the same zealots claimed, “Real Carreras have four cams,” a reference to the complex Fuhrmann engine that powered the hottest of the 356s. When Porsche went watercooled with the 996 in the late 1990s, the change haters screamed again. To be fair, that car also had funny headlights and a chintzy interior.

The 997 came as a relief; the sense of cheapness was ironed out and the headlights trimmed into an oval shape that recalled the earlier cars. Plenty of people felt that it really didn't need anything. But the 997 was essentially an evolution of the 996; the architecture was aging. Something new was necessary. As much as Porsche claims that the 911 dictates the direction of the brand, it feels as if the Panamera may be the new dictator in town.

The coupe's interior is a cut-down version of the sedan's—no bad thing, as the manatee-shaped bruiser has proved itself a fine place to spend time. The thing is, the 991 feels like nothing so much as a smaller Panamera with stonkingly ridiculous rear-end traction.

Get on the power a little early out of a corner and the rear end, rather than misbehaving, on the 991 simply does a little waggle on the suspension, takes a set and launches you out. With the PDK dual-clutch trans in sport mode, you don't even really have to think about it. The programming is practically psychic, leaving you free to shout "Doppelkupplungsgetriebe!" in your best Sgt. Schultz accent while the gearbox does its work. By adding higher math into the chassis, Porsche's taken some of the mental arithmetic out of driving the car. The 911 is now as fire-and-forget as just about anything one can buy.

As a point-to-point weapon, it's stupendous. As a backroad challenge, it's less so. Taming the 991 is no badge of honor. Running with 1950s Alfas, Benzes and Furhmann-powered 356s on a thousand miles of Northern California's finest roads, the drivers of the older cars were finding their vehicles' sweet spots. The 991 has a sweet spot, but finding a public road where it can be exploited is rare indeed.

Instead, I found myself mostly looking for excuses to mash the throttle and listen to the 3.8-liter flat-six piped into the cabin via a sound symposer. The effect wasn't as synthetic as the upside-down stucco monstrosities that pockmark the Golden State's landscape, but it wasn't as authentic as a Pasadena Craftsman or an Alameda Victorian, either.

Since the Panamera was announced, rumors have occasionally swirled that Porsche was working on a front-engined GT, a proper successor to the 928, a car that the company felt was destined to replace the 911 at some point in the 1980s. Such a car is practically pointless now.

The 911 is now essentially a modern 928 with the engine in the trunk, and even the storied flat-six powerplant has crept forward. Porsche claims that it simply moved the wheels to the rear, but the dynamic effect is the same—there's less mass behind the rear axle line, reducing the pendulum effect beloved by 911 aficionados and loathed by those who merely require a flashy sports car to shine a light on their station in life.

What does it mean for California? It depends on which California you're asking about. The California of profilers, of the bankers, brokers and dealers who choose PDK because they've never learned to drive a manual? It means what the 911 has unfortunately meant for time immemorial—it's a car for self-important jackhats. For the California of tinkers, of innovators, of iconoclasts? Well, those cats might well be disappointed.

What does it mean for the backroad purists, the Sunday blasters and the track-day warriors? Despite the fact that the 991 Carrera S is as fast as the 997 GT3 around the Nürburgring, I doubt that the Carrera S will see much track time. The wealthy hard-cores will wait for the upcoming GT3, or they were some of the lucky few to pick up a 997 GT3 RS 4.0.

The 991's probably the best all-around GT car a man of above-average means can purchase today. It's easier to drive. It's more comfortable. It's lighter. It's faster. Its interior finally matches its price point. The more I drove it, the more I caned it, the more impressed I was with its capabilities. And the more detached I felt from it. Its immediacy seemed to dull with familiarity. I'd compare it to the newer suburbs of Sacramento, San Bernardino and Riverside counties, but that's unfair to the car. Those festering rabbit warrens never had any immediacy to begin with, save for the speed with which they sprung from the soil.

We're bigger. We're fatter. We're more litigious. We're tarnished. The BRICs are ascendant. Yet California's still a wonderful place—from the desert brown of the Eastern Sierra to ramshackle marvels such as the Warehouse on the shores of the Carquinez Straits. From the forget-it-Jake Chinatown glory of the San Pedro post office and Los Angeles' Union Station to the shores of blue Tahoe. There's been artifice here since just after John Marshall discovered gold in a millrace up at Coloma; it just changes its station as the decades slide by.

I tuned in during a time when young schoolteachers could afford nice 356s or purchase new 914s. Slices of the dreams I had for this place as a kid are still alive. I see them snap into stark focus when I stow my ratty 914's targa top in the trunk and drink in the sound of twin Weber IDFs sucking air behind my head.

The 991 is a lovely car, but the more I drove it, the less it stoked and reinforced my dreams. It insulated me from this place. It drove on top of and apart from California. I want to drive through it. In a sporting Porsche, I want to drive through it.